


Guilt

by blackeyedsoul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9637373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedsoul/pseuds/blackeyedsoul
Summary: This was prompted on Tumblr.I cannot remember who prompted it and I was not able to find it again. The prompt went roughly like this:Imagine John checking on Sherlock (after the beating in the morgue) and seeing the injuries he had caused... Maybe seeing his scars, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted on Tumblr. I cannot remember who prompted it and I was not able to find it again. The prompt went roughly like this: Imagine John checking on Sherlock and seeing the injuries he had caused... Maybe seeing his scars, too.  
> The thought got stuck in my head and would not leave me alone. Therefore I post my very first fic in the Sherlock fandom.  
> I am a little nervous but the knowledge that my Beta [sal_si_puedes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sal_si_puedes/pseuds/sal_si_puedes) who writes the best Fics ever - did not tell me to immediately delete the whole thing - made me post it nonetheless.  
> I want to thank her because she did this for me once again after my very long absence from writing.  
> This is not Brit picked.

The living room was almost completely dark now, only a very faint last gloom of daylight shed just enough light to see the amber liquid swirling in the tumbler. John stared into the glass, his hand resting on the armrest of the sofa moved almost on its own volition round and round to swirl the glass, John did not even consciously realize that he was doing it. Every now and then the lights of a passing car danced across the ceiling and faded away again. It was so much quieter here in the suburbs.  
Rosie thankfully was sleeping in her crib in the other room so it would stay that silent at least until her next bottle was due. A bottle he would make because the mother who would have been breastfeeding her was gone. Gone was also the ghost of her. The steady nagging presence of Mary in his mind had faded and disappeared completely as something else had taken her place, something else had begun to turn his guts and clench his heart too tight to take a full breath: guilt. A deep unsettling guilt had overcome him and settled in his chest, heavy and dark and refusing to be mitigated. For the thousands time today his thoughts wandered back to the previous afternoon. John could not even remember the last time he had been crying real tears, tears that had flooded his eyes and run down his face in salty streaks. That afternoon at Baker Street when he had finally broken down the force of them had been unstoppable. 

He had cried for Mary at first and then, very, very soon after, for his daughter who now didn’t have a mother anymore. His heart had been breaking for his tiny beautiful little baby who wouldn’t even ever know what she had lost.  
After a short while his brain had decided to feed him the next scenario he should cry about and even more tears came forth: shame, he cried out of shame over what he had done to Sherlock, he was so very ashamed and disgusted with himself his entire body had started shaking with the force of his tears. He had beaten Sherlock, had hit him hard, completely out of his mind. He had not even recognized himself anymore, he hated the violent creature that had shown its ugly face down there in the morgue. John had sobbed unabashedly leaning heavily into Sherlock's bruised and battered body. Sherlock’s steady soothing presence had embraced him like he was still worth it and it had ingrained itself into John's brain after that. He had trembled and shaken in Sherlock's arms, tears streaming down his chin soaking Sherlock's T-shirt, but he still had not been able to stop. Sherlock's warm hand had rested firmly on his neck trying to spent comfort yet the balmy looming presence of the man he had hurt so deeply brought forth even more grieve. The last wave had washed him away and he had finally, finally shed all the tears he never had been able to before. John grieved for everything that had gone so very, very wrong in the past few years since Sherlock had left him.  
It was like all the tears he had been holding in with almost superhuman effort back then added to all his guilt and shame and loss when they finally poured out of him and ripped him apart. He had been unable to keep the wake of his feelings contained any longer.  
At some point his knees had shaken so hard and his body had trembled so violently he let himself sink to the floor and Sherlock sank with him, not letting go, his face buried deep into Sherlock's chest and his hands holding on to the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown. Somewhere in the very back of his mind on the edge of all his blurry thoughts and mangled feelings in the middle of this emotional avalanche he wondered how Sherlock could do this, could hold him and cradle him against his body after John had hurt him so very much. Never before in is life had John broken down so completely like he had right there on the floor with Sherlock in the middle of Baker Street. Sherlock had not uttered another word, had just stroked John's back with his hand up and down so very gently and caringly until his hand rested again on John's neck, Sherlock's cheek pressed into John's hair, and John had clung to that. "It is what it is," the words would not leave John alone again and why did he still not dare to finish the line? Had that even been intentional or pure coincidence? Did Sherlock even know the poem? Why did he know it? Ah, yes, the wedding. Classic wedding stuff… _it is what it is says love_ … too soon or too late? John did not know anything anymore.

He did not know how long they had been like this, how long until his tears had dried out and the sobbing and shaking had subsided enough for him to form words again, it was more like a croaked whisper spoken against Sherlock's damp chest:  
"I hit you Sherlock… I am so sorry."

Sherlock had not let go, there had been no anger in his voice, only a calm and reassuring softness.

"Yes, John, you did… and I forgive you." 

"It won’t happen ever again, Sherlock I swear… I don't…" Another stroke down his back and up again.

"No, it won't, John. I know that."

Sherlock's hand had still been resting John's nape, his cheek then against the damp skin of John's forehead. John had not moved away, on the contrary, he had pressed a little tighter into Sherlock's chest and Sherlock had responded with tightening his long arms around John. They had waited, waited until John had been breathing evenly again and had felt somehow ready to face the world. They had pulled apart slowly until there had been enough distance to look into Sherlock’s eyes: "Can we go on… I mean, do you even want to go on, to see me again?"

Another passing car illuminated the room and tore John out of his reminiscence. It was completely dark outside now and the intruding headlights blinded his eyes. He downed the rest of the Whiskey and resolutely left his spot on the sofa. Rosie would wake up soon and he would feed her and then go to bed. Tomorrow he would go to Baker Street and see Sherlock. He needed to see him and perhaps he would finally make everything right again or at least save what was left.

John did not sleep well that night, he was too churned up to find rest. His mind refused to turn off the infinite maelstrom of thoughts and emotions all gyrating around Sherlock. At 5 o’clock in the morning he gave up and left the bed to find at least the smallest respite in the motion of making tea and going through his morning routine. The simple task of showering and getting dressed until Rosie stirred in her crib kept him from crawling up the walls. She gave him another duty to occupy himself with. He put fresh nappies on his little girl and dressed her in a warm fluffy jumper while the bottle cooled down enough to feed her. When everything was done he figured it was late enough to put the baby in her stroller and go to Baker Street. Out on the street in the chilly morning air John's insides fluttered with a mixture of deep unsettling uncertainty and anticipation to get there. He felt deeply relieved to leave his flat behind and at the same time guilty about that revelation. Had it ever really felt like home? Like he belonged there? Like the place he wanted to be right now? Unsure if he wanted to acknowledge the answer to that question he pushed the stroller towards Baker Street.

Mr. Hudson opened the door for him. He could have used his keys and let himself in but it did not feel right, not anymore or not yet again.

"John you're back!” she greeted him with a welcoming smile, another motion he felt undeserving of, “and look who’s there,” she chimed, bending down into the stroller to take Rosie out who was wide awake and waving her little arms in delight. John heaved the stroller into the corridor.

“Can I leave Rosie with you for a while? I want to check on Sherlock."

"Of course we'll be fine!" Mr. Hudson beamed and ushered John upstairs before she disappeared into her flat with Rosie on her arm and the diaper bag slung over her shoulder.

John entered the flat prepared to find Sherlock preferably laying on the sofa or at least in his chair or perhaps bent over the microscope in the newly retrieved kitchen minus the meth lab. Yet John found only empty rooms. Baker Street was unusually quiet. Had Sherlock finally succumbed to sleep? John was hopeful that after everything Sherlock had done to his body and mind he had perhaps allowed himself to sleep. Stuffed with cake - doubtlessly the first solid food for days if not weeks - Sherlock’s body might have won the fight for respite. They had separated yesterday in the early evening when John had to leave to pick up Rosie and had begged Sherlock to go home and rest. Had Sherlock for once listened to him?

John tip-toed to Sherlock's bedroom door and very gently pushed it open. He needed to be sure if everything was alright, then he could leave and come back later. Enough daylight filtered through the drawn curtains to show Sherlock lying in his bed. His back to the door and the sheet had slipped all the way down to his narrow hips. John froze in utter horror. 

He heard his own sharp intake of breath when a new wave of guilt hit him hard. A torrent of unstoppable dread convulsed his stomach forcefully and his chest seemed to suddenly try to mash his wildly beating heart. His eyes stung with rising tears which he tried desperately to swallow down against the lump in his throat. Only the forceful grip he had on the door handle saved him from losing his balance. 

The most prominent mark on Sherlock's sleeping body was one big almost perfectly round bruise that spread in various shades of dark purple over his side from the area around his kidneys up to his ribcage. That was his doing, h i s, he had kicked Sherlock he had _kicked_ him when he had already been on the ground, not even fighting back! He had done this. John felt sick. He was sick to his stomach, bile was already rising in his throat. He swallowed it down... staring at this beautiful man's marred body. That was not the only injury he saw there, more evidence of his violent outburst spread over Sherlock's back, ne obviously from the door handle of the body compartment he had pushed him into.

It took John several moments to tear his eyes from the most glaring marks and descry the older scars that lay beneath. They stretched over Sherlock’s entire back. Long white streaks, some of them still very white and thick with scar tissue, some more faint and very thin crisscrossed over the pale skin.  
John had seen enough tortured men back in Afghanistan to know what he was looking at. Suddenly he was not able to repress the sickening wave of horror that rose inside of him again. He managed to hold it down long enough to get out of Sherlock's room and into the loo before he emptied his stomach into the toilet, the sound far too loud in the peaceful calm of the flat. He retched until his stomach hurt. When he was done he rested his sweaty forehead on the cool porcelain brim of the bathtub for a moment before he numbly scratched himself off the bathroom floor and used a sip of Sherlock's mouthwash before he dragged his feet back into the living room where he slumped down onto the couch. He buried his face in his hands, his eyes prickling with tears again. What had he done! What in god's name had he done? And how had he not known about the scars? What kind of a god-forsaken asshole of a friend was he to not know about that! Sherlock had been tortured, extensively. It must have been living hell, he could not even imagine the pain Sherlock had endured... Sherlock! 

The sofa dipped next to him. 

"John."

Sherlock’s warm steady voice startled John. He had not wanted to wake him.  
It took a few deep breaths to compose himself before John was able to take his hands away from his face and look at Sherlock. Sherlock was facing him. One foot on the floor and the other leg folded under him on the sofa to be able to fully turn towards John. He was dressed in Pajama bottoms and a blue dressing gown. Sherlock’s gaze rested on him calmly and openly. John saw no anger there or any kind of negative feeling towards him. One of Sherlock’s normally so mercurial eyes was deep red from a popped blood vessel. Also his doing! The doctor in him immediately made a note that if by tomorrow the color would not have lightened Sherlock needed to see an ophthalmologist.

"Sherlock..." 

The effort to talk against his burning throat was almost too much and he did not know what to say, what he could possibly say to any of this. "I am so sorry..." Again, again he was not able to utter anything else, also it was not nearly sufficient, not nearly enough, it did not even scratch at the surface of the deep dark pit of pain and remorse inside of him.

Again, Sherlock was the one to reach out, he was the one with all the courage in this. The irony of the situation not escaping him, John watched in amazement Sherlock’s larger hand cover the back of his own.

“John,” Sherlock said again,“ please stop beating yourself up and whatever else you might have seen… John, it’s not your fault what happened to me back then.”

“Why did I not know that, Sherlock, why did you not tell me… why did you not trust me with this?” Oh my god, he was on the verge of crying again.

“John, I wanted you to be happy. You seemed happy with Mary and I had caused you so much pain already. I had miscalculated and I did not want to add anything more.”

“Sherlock… maybe… maybe it would have changed everything… talking to me… telling me…." John kept staring at Sherlock’s hand covering his and slowly turned his hand to intertwine their fingers.

The change of contact drew Sherlock’s gaze down to where their hands rested between them on the sofa. They sat in silence for a long moment until Sherlock shifted only the tiniest bit and tensed noticeably just from the small movement.

That wordless tell ripped John's very last piece of hesitation to shreds, he needed to do something, wanted to do something. 

He carefully drew his hands from Sherlock’s hold and leaned forward to reach for the knot that held Sherlock’s dressing gown closed. He paused right there, his fingers already on the knot, and tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes, wanting to see if he was allowed. Sherlock did not avoid his gaze but he also did not give any sign of what he wanted John to do. John wanted to see, needed to see and slowly, very slowly pulled the knot open, taking it as enough for now that Sherlock did not stop him.

Transfixed Sherlock watched him slip the dressing gown from his shoulders, letting it pool around his hips on the sofa. 

John was not able to suppress the small gasp that escaped him at what was revealed. The bruise was even bigger on the front, spreading outside from one deep almost black center. 

"Oh my god," he whispered breathlessly, not daring to touch the purple flesh, knowing it would hurt like hell, but he wanted, he needed to touch him. John stretched out a shaky hand, very carefully, to see if Sherlock wanted to back off but he didn't, so John touched his skin very lightly with just his fingertips. It was the barest of contact fluttering over one of the white streaks on Sherlock’s chest, only the gentlest touch of shaky fingers, feather-light on Sherlock’s skin, and yet he could hear Sherlock inhale sharply.

John's gaze was fixed on Sherlock’s skin, watching intently what his hands were doing. His fingertips followed the torn skin until the scar faded away but John could not stop now. The skin under his fingers was so warm and he could see gooseflesh rising in the wake of his touch. John wanted to go on touching Sherlock as if the very first contact had finally taken away his stubborn self-delusion he had forced upon himself for far too long. He put his hand flat on Sherlock’s chest and carefully, oh so carefully let it wander down to the bruised ribs, just far enough to merely touch the edges of the angry bruise and stoked along the unharmed side of Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock caught his wrist, slender fingers gripping his arm, John's eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock’s, immediately fearing he had done something wrong and ready to apologize to just play it down and.... But what he saw there in Sherlock expression was not anger, it was desperation, vulnerable and yet hopeful, and it clenched his heart tight and he wasn't sure what to do or say. 

"Sherlock I....”

Sherlock stopped him.

"John…" It was nothing more than a whisper but Sherlock’s eyes did not leave his and the grip around his wrist stayed firm "... Don't...." Sherlock’s eyes closed, he breathed in and out again as if steeling himself for the one unspeakable thing, before he opened them to look at John. John was instantly terrified that he had gone too far, had in the end miscalculated. Sherlock's voice wavered as he pleaded silently: “Don't touch me like that…not if you don't mean it, John... _That_ I could not take... I would not come back from _that_ ."

John’s heart pounded wildly, understanding seeping in, crawling through his carefully upheld obstinacy, funneling in and washing away the foundation of his belief he had held up so damned long until it washed over him and one thought rose above the pandemonium that was raging in his heart. 

Oh god.... He wanted Sherlock, he wanted to touch him, he did mean it like _that_ . 

John’s gaze did not falter and he only tugged lightly against Sherlock’s hold on his wrist to break free and this time very deliberately placed his palm back on Sherlock’s skin, flat on his chest over a likewise wildly beating heart. There it was, it was an answer and a confession all at once, the long overdue step John had withheld from both of them for far too long.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his stuttering deep breath a visible proof of the surge of emotions that swept over him. John had never seen Sherlock that vulnerable and the fact that Sherlock allowed him to see that, that this was for him and him alone, left John's heart in pieces.

John stroked up the side of Sherlock's neck and farther up until he cupped his cheek and gently thumbed over Sherlock’s soft lower lip once. The touch made Sherlock gasp and open his eyes again. John did it again, a gentle stroke over this beautiful lips, awe-struck and hypnotized by the movement of his own fingers over that mouth.  
"I want to kiss you", he rasped, not daring to just do it, still afraid the bubble was about to burst with one single false blink of an eye. 

Sherlock pulled him closer, gently but firmly. "John," he breathed out before their lips touched for the very first time. 

Sherlock’s lips were warm and soft and pliant when John kissed them tentatively for the first time. Just one gentle peck. He repeated this motion once, twice before he licked gently over the seam of Sherlock’s lips and they immediately opened for him just a little, just enough to allow a careful lick from John's tongue. The contact was so overwhelmingly sensual and intimate John breathlessly gasped into the kiss: "Oh god". When Sherlock finally allowed John in and their tongues finally touched a deep moan escaped both of them. John's brain nearly short-circuited from the rush of feelings that took hold of him. He deepened the kiss after only moments but even in his dazed mind he realized the frisson that ran through Sherlock’s body and was immediately followed by a surprised yet clearly recognizable wince of pain. It caused John to draw back but Sherlock would not let him. Large hands cupped his face and drew him close again, enabling Sherlock to lick into his mouth again and again. He did not dare to embrace Sherlock but as the kiss grew even more hungry and passionate Sherlock moved forward to close the last gap between their bodies but then he winced again, stronger this time and enough to force him to break the kiss. They panted against each other's faces, foreheads still touching, when John decided to let the doctor in him win for now.

“Sherlock, you are in pain. Please... I want this... I want you so much right now but I cannot bear your pain, even less so since I am responsible for it. You need to rest.”

The fact that Sherlock only nodded weakly and in defeat told John even more than Sherlock could have told him with words. If this man chose to not fight him in this John knew how much it had to hurt. He took Sherlock’s face in his hands again and looked at him. “You need to rest and heal."

Sherlock lay his hand over John’s still holding his face and stroked his thumbs over the back of John’s hand, turning his head slightly to kiss the palm of John's hand.  
“Please stay.... Don't leave, John ... please.”

John was very sure that he would not leave Sherlock alone one more day of his life but that Sherlock felt the need to beg for this saddened him beyond what he was able to express right now. It was his fault, he had made Sherlock believe that he did not want him for so very long! He nodded.

“Let me check on Rosie and then I'll come back.”

Mrs. Hudson reassured him that they were fine. She'd go on a walk with Rosie and come back later.

John went back upstairs. Sherlock had returned to the bedroom so John decided to make him some tea and toast to go along with two Ibuprofen he had gotten from Mrs. Hudson, since Sherlock's flat was squeaky clean after Mycroft’s minions had cleared the place out. 

Sherlock did not fight him on that either and ate the toast and drank the tea wordlessly, swallowed the pills before he settled back under the covers on his uninjured side, every movement visibly hurting. 

“Lie down with me?” The question almost shy.

John smiled reassuringly and undressed down to his briefs without hesitation before he crawled into bed settling close to Sherlock face to face fighting the urge to touch or embrace him to avoid laying any pressure on Sherlock’s body. So John kiss him a little more, only their faces touching, as long as John did not try to get his arms around Sherlock, he would hopefully not cause any more pain. So they kissed with John's hand on Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock's arm resting lightly on John's waist. It was beautiful and warm and loving. They kissed until Sherlock fell asleep again. John waited until Sherlock breathed evenly and was fast asleep before he got out of bed and put his clothes on. This time he took a taxi. Back in the suburbs he packed a suitcase for Rosie and for himself for a few days and he also got Rosie's travel bed before he headed back to Baker Street.

It was already early evening when John returned with their belongings. He found Sherlock and Rosie on the sofa.

Sherlock had put the tea egg to use as a toy which Rosie obviously found extremely interesting. He looked up and gave John a warm welcoming smile

They set up Rosie's bed in the living room, it would do until they would figure everything out. The rest of the evening went quietly, John made dinner from the little food he was able to retrieve in the kitchen, tomorrow he would go shopping. If his time with Mary had done one thing it was to wean him off of his steady intake of take away food.

Sherlock went back to bed early while John prepared Rosie for bed. He fed and changed her and took her into bed with him. He snuggled tightly against Sherlock's sleeping warm body and lay Rosie next to him. She could sleep in her own bed tomorrow, for now he just wanted to get them all some sleep. He watched her until her eyes fell close and allowed himself to fall asleep again.

Their lives slotted together surprisingly easy again or was it even surprising in the end? Sherlock spent another three days foremost in bed and John made sure he ate and drank his tea. He cared for Rosie and spent each free minute in bed with Sherlock to keep him company. Very relieved John observed how Sherlock's eye went from angry red to light pink and back to its original color of pure white around his stale blue irises.

On the fourth day Sherlock dragged himself out of bed, moving almost normally again. When he backed John against the kitchen counter and snogged him thoroughly the illusion faded away when John hugged him in his besotted daze and Sherlock hissed in pain again.

They gave themselves a few more days. Sherlock insisted on carrying Rosie around a few times but he couldn't bear it for long and gave up sulking a little.

After six days at home Sherlock grew so agitated that John shooed him out of the flat to accompany him on his daily stroll with Rosie. It seemed for the very first time that Sherlock moved completely normal again and John was not able to detect any hints of suppressed pain in his stance or any other tells that Sherlock tried to hide any soreness. 

That evening Sherlock played his violin for the first time in a very long while. He had taken his instrument into the bedroom with him because Rosie's travel bed was still set up in the living room. He played a soothing soft melody John did not recognise but it was beautiful and chosen to not keep Rosie from falling asleep. John leaned against the door frame to watch him when he came back from putting Rosie into her bed. Sherlock playing his violin was mesmerizing, John had always loved to watch him play and he had admitted, at least to himself, countless times that Sherlock being lost in his music was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Sherlock was the most beautiful man he had ever seen. Serenity wasn’t a word he would normally connect to Sherlock Holmes except when he was playing. Sherlock was mostly facing the window, his eyes closed and his face completely relaxed. He was lightly swaying back and forth to the music, his face dimly lit from the streetlamps outside and only one lamp from the nightstand. Graceful fingers held the bow and moved over the strings. An all too familiar warmth spread in John’s chest, he was itching to cross the room and touch him.

John knew deep down that, before the fall he had been on his way to admit what he wanted, had been so very close actually to act on his feelings – only after that, after Sherlock had left him, everything had gone to shit. John could have pulled the emergency brake all the weeks before his marriage. Once or twice he had been at the very edge of doing so but all his stupid hurt feelings and his fear and anger had scared him into going through with it. He had even successfully lied to himself for the longest time.

John pushed away from the door frame and stealthily entered the bedroom on bare feet. He stepped behind Sherlock, careful not to startle him. Sherlock kept playing when John leaned into him, he rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder blade, reveling in the warmth of his body and the wonderful smell of his T-shirt and skin underneath. His hands rested on Sherlock's hips, low enough to be able to slip his thumps beneath the fabric of the worn T- shirt and deliberately stroke the warm skin over prominent hipbones.

Sherlock shuddered, giving a very soft hum of appreciation, but he kept playing. John slipped his hands further underneath Sherlock's shirt and drew his palms slowly upwards over the very flat but surprisingly muscular stomach. His journey continued over Sherlock’s ribs and chest, stroking his thumbs lightly over Sherlock's instantly hardening nipples. John did not remember ever having been aroused from only so little contact so fast. Just being allowed to touch Sherlock like this made him dizzy with wanting so much more. 

Sherlock leaned back into the touch, meeting John's very palpable erection. They both gasped from the contact. John tightened his grip around Sherlock's chest and stroked more firmly over the hardening nipples, kissing the side of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock leaned back, meeting John' s twitching cock with a low rumbling moan that did indescribable things to John, making him even harder.

Finally Sherlock let the instrument sink and turned around in John's embrace. The sight of him took John’s breath away.

Sherlock’s expression was completely unguarded, he radiated desire, his irises pale blue sliver around blown pupils full with want, want for him. John reached for Sherlock's face to stroke his thumb over the pliant lips. It seemed to be one of his favorite things nowadays.

Sherlock opened his mouth just the tiniest bit and touched John's finger with the tip of his tongue, making him gasp and grip Sherlock at the back of his neck and guide him down to kiss him. Finally he did not have to hold back anymore so he licked passionately into Sherlock's wonderful hot mouth, letting things grow heated very fast.

Sherlock responded in kind, kissing and biting John's lips, moaning deep in his throat. Sherlock's deep rumbling fired up John's searing desire even more, sending a shiver through his body he was unable to stop. Oh my god, when was the last time his body had shivered like that? Involuntarily? Uncontrollably? Perhaps as a teenager, maybe at his very first time?

Sherlock surrounded John with long arms and pulled him as close as possible, pressing them together in abandon, the force of Sherlock’s obvious want made John feel light headed, his hips greedily bucking forward, feeling the rock hard evidence of arousal through the thin fabric of Sherlock's pajama bottoms. Nobody before had left John that helpless in his need a blind unstoppable tangle of want – he hadn’t even known it was possible to bodily ache for another’s touch.

They separated only to quickly make enough room to yank each other's shirts off and crush their bodies together again. 

John felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, probing the irregularities of his damaged skin before he broke the kiss and let his eyes follow. Sherlock scrutinized his scars with complete focus, his fingers followed the outline of the thickly scarred tissue there. 

John looked up and watched Sherlock intensely examine his wounded shoulder he realized that he did not feel insecure about it although Sherlock saw it for the first time.  
Sherlock bowed down and kissed the area around it, he licked and nibbled there, this felt even more intimate to John than anything that has happened between them until this point. He wanted to say something, to tell Sherlock, but the only sound he was able to muster at this point was a breathy and yearning: "Sherlock". So he buried his hand in the nape of Sherlock's neck instead and let him have whatever he wanted.

After some time Sherlock started to kiss and lick his way up John's neck. When he reached his ear Sherlock whispered breathlessly:  
"Tell me this is real... I need to hear it, John." Sherlock's voice was breathy and panting against the hot shell of John's ear.

It was exactly what John felt, too! The surrealism of them here... Finally here... John understood and whispered back:  
"It’s real, love, I am here and you are, too."

Sherlock stopped kissing and leaned back a fraction, eyebrow arched in silent inquiry. Everything stopped for one heartbeat or two. It took John only one second to grasp what had happened. The endearment had slipped out unconsciously and Sherlock ... Oh god... Sherlock was insecure, did not believe the words that slipped out although they were spoken from the bottom of John's heart, had been there for far too long.

"Sherlock… I do love you, I do and I have for so very long. I was just too stupid to admit it."

"John…" Sherlock groaned and grabbed John's face with both of his hands and kissed him again fiercely. He eagerly started to fumble at John's belt. 

Jesus... John loved him doing that, yanking the belt open and eagerly popping the buttons, Sherlock's large strong hand palming his achingly hard cock through the fabric of his briefs, making John groan into the kiss and bucking wantonly into the firm touch.

Sherlock let go to push John's jeans down as far as they would go and John quickly stepped out. Sherlock’s pajama bottoms slipped down more easily and John walked them backwards until he touched the bed and pulled Sherlock down with him.

Sherlock crawled over him kissing John's mouth and down his throat sucking possessively at the pulse point making John gasp before licked soothingly at the dark red skin and growled: "You're mine now, John, say your mine!"

"Yours, Sherlock, I am yours," John breathed against Sherlock ear, arching up to underline his words bringing their cocks together in a demanding grind.

"John...." It was a desperate plea for more hands fumbling a bit uncoordinatedly to tuck John's briefs down. John helped by lifting his hips from the mattress.

The first contact of their naked flesh made both of them moan. Precome already dripping steadily made a perfectly wet slide between their joint bodies. John gripped Sherlock's butt and pulled him as close as possible in a desperate desire to add even more friction. Pure pleasure racing up his spine. His blood boiling from this, Sherlock’s cock against his own, Sherlock’s deep rumbling moaning and panting electrifying every single one of John's nerve endings, hot heat already pooling in his groin. He would not last long, he was too overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what was happening and his pure want for this man. Sherlock established a rhythm thrusting his hips back and forth in a maddening surge.

"Oh god... Sherlock... So good, you feel so good," John mumbled, incoherent with pleasure. 

John took Sherlock’s face in both hands, brushing his wild locks from his face, and made him look up.

Sherlock’s blown pupils with only a small silver ring left of the ever changing color of Sherlock's eyes, is lips wet and puffy from kissing ... so stunningly beautiful. 

"I love you, Sherlock, I love you so much..."

Sherlock lunged down for a kiss, sensual and achingly the deep heartbreaking fondness in Sherlock’s voice melted John's heart.  
"You, John, it is always you, you are the only one I ever wanted." Sherlock pushed himself up enough to sneak one large hand between their bodies and the tight grip on their cocks was enough to push John to the very edge. The press of Sherlock’s body was nothing short of intoxicating, the long fingers enfolding them, pressing their cocks together and pumping them in unison was too much to take now.

"I want to see you, John, please… come for me, John," Sherlock demanded, his voice scraping gravel at the bottom of his throat – and John was done.  
Those words pushed him right over the edge, his orgasm ripping through him, spilling between their writhing bodies. 

Sherlock followed right there, going rigid in John's tight embrace, thrusting upwards into his not so steady fist, and he added his hot come to John's mess on their bellies.

John tried to take in as much as possible, fighting back his own haze to see Sherlock coming, to see him lose control and to hear him moan his name, "John, John, John," over and over again.

Sherlock went boneless on top of John, face buried deep in the curve of John's neck, John's hands wandering up and down his long sweaty back, holding him tight. 

They stayed like that for a long while, intertwined and sticky with come, but it did not matter, John was willing and happy to lay there with Sherlock on top of him as long as it would last.

Sometime later Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. Face and neck blushed red, eyes gloomy and an unbelievably broad and sweet smile on his face.

"John that was... _Us_!"

The awe in Sherlock's voice made John smile, too, before he pulled him down again to kiss the smile that stayed there on his beautiful, beautiful face. 

Sherlock lifted himself up a little more and John could see that he was trying to say something.

Sherlock swallowed visibly and John pressed his hand.

"Tell me, Sherlock… what is it?" 

"Come back, John… I mean… for good." 

"Sherlock, yes, I want to. I want to come home."

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you forgive ma a little shameless selfpromotion. I recently started a blog and although I am not fully convinced it was a good idea I kind of keep writing and therefore find myself hoping for a few more visits.
> 
> So...yeah...like...maybe you want to come visit:
> 
> [JustApersonalReckoning](http://justapersonalreckoning.blogspot.de/)


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